


You Shall Behold Yourself

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belts, Bottom Dean, Corruption, Demon Dean Winchester, Hair Pulling, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Scratching, Spanking, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that he's a demon, Dean does what he likes.  Some of those likes just happen to involve laying traps and pushing to see how far his victims will go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Shall Behold Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to Howitt's poem, "The Spider And The Fly."

The haircutting was a rite of passage. He’d never worn it long when he was young. Never really wanted to. But when John gave him the Impala and solo hunts became more rule than exception, Dean knew it was time to go short.

Not skinhead short, or a full military cut, but short enough that fingers would slip through without catching, with a helpful side-effect of making him actually look like some of the people his fake IDs claimed he was.

Well, fuck that noise. Anybody who gets ideas now loses a goddamn hand. Anyone who argues? Yeah, good luck playing gatekeeper to a guy who can teleport past your ass and doesn’t give two shits about whether blood stains carpet.

So the hair’s a little longer now. It feels good to lose the whole mission discipline and practicality crap.

And, of course, there are the other benefits.  
The guy he’s kissing — and Dean’s always kissed guys, he’s just more blatant about it now — runs his fingers through Dean’s hair and grips. Not hard. It’s just a hitch of want in the fingers that makes Dean itch for more. It gives him ideas. Makes him want to push some buttons.

“What’s your name?” Dean rasps, then nips at the soft-yet-stubble-rough skin below the guy’s jaw.

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, I want to know what I’m supposed to be screaming.”

That’s the funny thing about human beings. Sex isn’t even a real sin. Not really. But everybody thinks it is, and there’s something about the way guilt tastes on bitten, fuck-swollen lips. Taboo is a powerful intoxicant. It can make otherwise sane people do terrible things.

Dean wonders how far he can take this tonight. How far this guy will go.

He runs his tongue over the faint marks from his teeth, and oh, does that get a reaction. Fingers that played at gentleness earlier close tight in Dean’s hair and pull, shooting little darts of pain and adrenaline through his body. Dean bares his throat with a gasp.

“Call me Jesse.”

“Used to know a Jesse.” Dean’s fingers find belt loops and latch on, partially for balance but mainly for traction so he can grind up against the guy’s dick. He licks his lips and moves slow, almost like a lap dance. “Had the devil in him.”

Jesse’s free hand glides up under the front of Dean’s shirt. “I’ll bet I can put him to shame.”

“You can try,” Dean laughs, low and dirty, but he lets his eyelids flutter when Jesse’s fingertips graze his nipple. “He was kind of the Antichrist.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm, hmm. He did all kinds of crazy shit.”

Which is true. Just not in the way this guy thinks. And that, Dean reflects as Jesse releases his hair and shoves him face down onto the bed, is a beautiful example of how this whole thing works. Take one hard dick and make it think there’s something to prove, and bam.

Dean raises his ass up and rocks it side to side. He hisses with delight at the sting of a hand landing hard on his right ass cheek, and arches his back to give Jesse better access.

Another slap, this time on the left. Dean moans into the bedding, rocks his hips.

“You like that?”

“Mm, yeah. Love a little warm-up action.”

Jesse’s fingers dig into the waistband of Dean’s jeans before his hand comes down again. Harder now. Dean grins, feral. Knows without seeing the darkness Jesse should have in his eyes. Not just blown pupils from arousal and the dim light, but jealousy. Maybe a little anger.

Another slap, sharp through denim. Another. Another.

“You know, my daddy used to give me the belt,” Dean purrs. “When I was old enough, used to make me give him mine. Said keeping it on me was a reminder.”

It’s a half-truth; John never used Dean’s own belt intentionally, but life on the road was a bitch, and there’d been at least one hand-me-down that had cut Dean’s heart at the time. Now? Well, now he doesn’t feel a damn thing except for the satisfaction and blind lust that goes with Jesse pushing a hard cock up against his ass while he reaches around to undo Dean’s buckle.

“Mmm, yeah. You gonna give it to me, Jesse? You gonna mark me up all nice? Gonna make me earn my stripes?”

His belt slides free, and Jesse shoves Dean’s jeans down over his ass with trembling hands. There’s adrenaline in the air now. If Dean had to guess, Jesse’s never done this before.

“Used to fold it in half and slide the strap over my ass before the first hit,” Dean murmurs as he slips a hand up between his own legs to tease his own dick. He’s hard, high on the seduction. He gives himself a well-earned stroke, and luxuriates in it, especially when he feels the inexpert brush of warm leather on his skin.

The first slap of the belt is amateur hour, but Dean plays it like it’s hot, groaning and pinching at his own nipples. The second is more confident. The third and — there it is — Jesse’s breath between clenched teeth. A little snarl. Bad things, bad places, rising up out of the dark.

Dean rides the pain. His body can take a hell of a lot of punishment now, needs it to get some of the good endorphins running around in his blood. He keeps his hand on his cock, pumping it with irregular jerks that carry him higher. His ass feels hot and numb and battered all at once.

“Want you,” he cries out after another snap of the belt on his skin.

“Want—” Slap. “You—” Crack. “In me.”

There’s a thump as Dean’s belt buckle hits the floor. He hears Jesse scrambling, undoing his jeans, the crinkle of a condom wrapper, the snap of a cap of lube.

Dean sucks in a breath at the cold slick as it drizzles between his cheeks. He feels the tip of Jesse’s thumb slide up through it before he shoves in.

“More,” Dean moans.

The thumb slides out. Two slippery fingertips replace it. Dean pushes back onto them.

“Could make me come just like this,” Dean lies. “All pretty and bruised for you.”

Jesse makes a sound in his throat. He stinks like empty-headed lust now, and nothing but.

“You want to use me, Jesse? Want to hold me down and make me take it? Gonna fill me up and make me scream your name like I promised? I bet you could make me do anything.”

Dean starts to say something else, but Jesse’s barely got his fingers out before he’s pushing his cock in a little too fast and a little to hard. And yeah, here’s the part where Dean lets himself go and enjoys the ride.

There’s something amazing about being filled up. It opens him, sends jolts through him, makes parts of his chest ache like he’s alive again. It’s pleasure, pure and simple. The first thrust lights up his nerves. The second pushes his brain out of the driver’s seat and reduces him to instinct.

Jesse’s lube-slick fingers are sticky where they grab on to Dean’s ass, his hips, his back. His fingernails dig into Dean’s skin, leaving marks down his sides and back. Dean cries out with every punishing snap of hips, and tilts his head back. Nothing could be better than this.

He needs it, wants everything, needs to be fucked open again and again for a taste of the one good human feeling he remembers, and —

A strong fist closes in his hair, yanking him back.

“Say it. Scream it.”

“Jesse.”

“Again.”

“Jesse. Oh fuck,” he whimpers. He tries to swallow to wet his dry throat. “Jesse. Jesse. Yes.”

“Again.”

“Jesse, please, oh fuck, yes.”

“Tell me what you want, Dean.”

He shudders. Exults. Knows he can have this because he built it up and brought it on himself. “Break me. Fuck me and break me, Jesse.”

The hand shoves his head down into the pillows hard, fingers still locked too tight in his hair, yanking sharp with every movement.

Dean chants the name, over and over, a prayer to the fragile, breathing thing that he’s permitting to live, to drill him, to take him apart.

He hears the mis-timed gasp before he feels the way Jesse’s body starts to tense. An arm wraps around Dean’s waist and Jesse pulls him up almost onto his lap, plowing as deep as he can and yanking Dean’s head back so that his throat is opened.

“Jesse, yes. Yes. Yes. Do it.”

Dean feels the spasm with inhuman clarity. Feels the wave of release. In a second, Jesse’s going to come down off of arousal and feel everything he pushed down marking Dean up.

Dean’s still hard. Of course he is. He loves being opened, but this moment? Dean rocks on Jesse’s oversensitive cock just a little too long before he slides off and lets him fall onto the bed. Dean lifts up a little on his knees to be sure every stripe and scratch is visible.

He whimpers a little as he traces them with the fingers of his free hand. 

Dean can practically taste the regret and shame in the air.

“Holy —” Jesse whispers.

“Not exactly.” He looks over his shoulder and lets his eyes go black. “Now open up, buttercup. I ain’t finished.”


End file.
